


Perfume

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3812401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mifune doesn’t know yet how he fits into the shape of this life, he’s still adjusting to the walls as if they’re the bars of a cage, and when there’s a knock he can’t imagine who would come to visit." Mifune gets a visitor and Tsubaki makes her wishes clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluenarcbird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bluenarcbird).



Mifune isn’t expecting a visitor. He’s barely accustomed to the space that will become his home in Death City, is still familiarizing himself with the width of the hallway and the jut of the corners and how quiet it sounds without the high chirp of Angela in her bedroom or running up and down the halls. It’s not that he thinks she should have stayed with him; she’ll be safe in the Academy dorms, able to interact with children far closer to her age than he is and far better company than he could be to anyone, and he’s tentatively optimistic about this new life that he has been placed in, this opportunity for a career beyond killing and protecting and killing to protect. But he doesn’t know yet how he fits into the shape of this life, he’s still adjusting to the walls as if they’re the bars of a cage, and when there’s a knock he can’t imagine who would come to visit.

His first thought is Angela, some lonely hope extinguished when he considers the likelihood of a child travelling the distance alone, particularly given the time and the fact that she should be hours asleep by now. That leaves Lord Death, perhaps, inserting himself into Mifune’s personal space as well as his new professional sphere, but that seems implausible too, out-of-character in a way Mifune can’t explain as much as sense somewhere down in his swordsman’s instincts. So he’s careful when he goes to the door, hand hovering at his waist where there is nothing now but air, defensive habits too strong to overcome with just the loss of a sword hilt in easy reach.

He eases the door open an inch, offering a “Hello?” before he can see who’s standing on the other side. Then the blinding effect of the inside lights fades, just enough to let him make out dark hair and pale skin, and when he blinks it’s the Star Clan boy’s sword standing there, offering him a smile that is laced over with something not-quite a threat but not-quite innocent either.

“Oh,” he says, knocked out of coherency by confusion, and she tips her head, her eyes going soft on an unspoken apology.

“Hello,” she says, eyes flickering down as she scuffs the toe of her boot against the step. “I’m sorry for coming by so late.”

“No,” Mifune says automatically, realizes he’s still holding the door open by a nervous few inches. “Ah.” He steps backward, pulls it wide so he can gesture the shadows of the night in. “Come in, please, sorry.”

The girl ducks her head in a quick acknowledgment of gratitude, glances up to catch Mifune watching her. Her smile slips wider, her gaze flickers back down, and she steps forward into the entrance. Her eyelashes are very dark against her cheeks, smooth curves of black Mifune watches for a moment before he can remember to push the door shut behind her.

“Sorry,” he says again, apologizing because he’s not sure how else to progress in the conversation. “Tsubaki, right?”

She looks back from her consideration of the still nearly-empty apartment, her smile curving up to catch the corners of her eyes. Mifune had thought her eyes were darker, before, but in the overhead light, with her chin tipped up towards him and without the distraction of imminent combat, they look more purple, the rich color of violets in sunlight.

“That’s right,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d know my name.”

“I remember you,” Mifune says, even though remembering  _her_  -- her face, the curve of her mouth, the dark oil-slick sheen of her weapon form -- is somewhat different than calling up her name alone from his memory. It’s true, in any case, and he’s beginning to remember, too, why perhaps having her inside his apartment is not the best idea.

“I’m so glad,” she says, soft and touched like he’s given her a compliment, and Mifune has to restrain the urge to back away against the wall, like there’s some physical danger captured in the features of her face and the way her dress clings to the curves of her body.

“You were the one who told me to join the Academy,” he says, a little too fast and a little too desperately. She doesn’t even blink, her smile doesn’t flicker, and Mifune’s starting to feel the chill of premonition trickle along his spine and out into his veins. “For which I’m grateful.” He pauses, has to clear his throat of the tension that is climbing into it from the pressure at his chest. “What did you need?”  
“Right,” and she’s looking down again, smiling that apology again and shifting her weight, tucking her hands behind her back like she’s a child about to ask for a favor. The position tugs her shoulders together, arches her back until the front of her dress is pulled tight against her chest, and Mifune stops thinking about that right then, drags his gaze up to the girl’s dark hair and firmly keeps it there while he waits for the rest of her sentence.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” she offers, clear and careful like she’s steeling herself. “But I had to talk to you tonight, before classes start tomorrow.” Then she looks up, the dark of her lashes catching a frame against the purple of her eyes, and there is nothing at all childlike about the expression on her face, and Mifune can’t control the heat that spikes like a burn just under his skin.

“What about?” Mifune asks, feeling his throat tighten with foreboding until the question sounds more nervous than curious.

Tsubaki’s chin dips down, her eyes dragging out across the loose fall of Mifune’s shirt, and it’s as if he’s wearing nothing at all to disguise the heat skittering over his skin from her gaze. There’s a long pause, her stare slipping hot and knowing all across him, and when she looks back up she’s still smiling, her head tipped just enough to the side to be a suggestion.

“You know, don’t you?” she asks, the question sounding sincere and warm, and then she steps forward and Mifune can’t make himself move sideways. She’s too close, well inside the few feet of reasonable distance he allowed, near enough that when she reaches out to touch his wrist it seems far more casual than premeditated. “Do you want me to tell you?”

Mifune doesn’t. He’s not sure he’ll be able to survive the shape of her lips forming the words that will make the attraction crackling in the gap between them real, can feel his resistance giving way until it’s only years of self-restraint and sacrifice keeping his hands from reaching out to take what she is offering.

“We can’t,” he says, and then faster, before she can point out the obvious inaccuracy in that, “ _I_  can’t. You’re a student, you’re a--” He had wanted to say  _child_ , wanted to crush his own desire into shame and shove her away at once, but he can’t say it in the end, can’t manage to frame enough force on that word to offer it to the dark in her eyes.

Her smile says she heard it anyway, her slow blink says she’s far less offended than he had half-hoped she would be for his own sake. “I’m eighteen,” she says, easily, like she’s not sweeping aside all his reasons for restraint with a few words. “Nineteen in August.”

“You are  _not_ ,” Mifune blurts, startled into flat denial by this unexpected removal of a barrier, and Tsubaki laughs, the sound bright and warm like summer sunshine.

“I could go and get my birth certificate, if you don’t believe me,” she offers.

“No,” Mifune says, shaking his head hard like he can throw off the tight knot of want in his chest as easily as he can throw off her offer. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a teacher, Tsubaki, I can’t--”

“You’re not a teacher yet,” she cuts him off, and then her fingers slide down, her thumb presses in against his palm, and Mifune is shuddering without any opportunity to call the reaction back. It’s been too long since anyone deliberately touched him, other than the vicious aggression of a fight or the unthinking ease of Angela reaching for his hand, and this is different, this has weight and force and intention and he can feel the tingle of reaction running all the way up his arm to spark out against his spine.

“Tsubaki,” he says, and it’s supposed to be a warning, would be if his voice weren’t shaking, if his arm weren’t going warm and pliant under the press of her fingers. She’s drawing his hand up, catching it between both of hers, and her fingers are stronger than he expected, pressing in against the center of his palm before sliding up and out over the shape of his knuckles.

“You have swordsman’s calluses,” she says, purring the statement more like she’s satisfied than surprised. Her hands go still on his, her eyes trace out along the fall of his sleeve and up to his shoulder, and Mifune knows he’s lost, lost beyond the last desperate shred of doubt, before she’s even looked up to see the expression on his face. He’s staring, he knows, can feel his lips parted on the breath he can’t quite catch; Tsubaki looks up at his eyes, down at his mouth, back to his eyes again, and then she smiles, slow and warm, crinkling her eyes into delight as she leans in without dropping his hand, presses in against his chest and tips her head up to fit her lips to his.

Her mouth is soft. It’s the first thing to go through Mifune’s head, just before adrenaline hits him and swamps any sense of coherency he might have had. Her hands are falling away from his fingers but he’s reaching out without thinking, fitting the calluses of his fingertips against the curve of her waist as she reaches up and slides silk-smooth fingers through his hair. It’s just friction, barely enough force for him to feel at all, but it feels supercharged, somehow, prickles all across his skin like Tsubaki’s touch is lightning grounding out against him. The whimper in his throat isn’t something he can call back, is barely something he’s aware of, some need for affection buried so deep and for long he had forgotten it was in him at all. Tsubaki makes a noise, something that is part a purr and almost a moan, and then her tongue is sliding past his lips, skimming over the roof of his mouth like she’s savoring the taste of him, and if there was any chance of him mustering a rejection it is gone with the easy confidence of that motion. His hands tighten at her waist, pull her in closer until they are crushed together, and then he’s kissing her back, licking against her mouth with far less grace and far more desperation than is in her own movements. And Tsubaki capitulates without speaking, leans back until he can feel her back arching against his fingers, settles her hands at the back of his neck so he’s holding her up. It’s easy enough to support her as well as himself, the extra weight not worth the trouble of convincing himself to pull away, and they fit together well like this, as well as he thought the first time he saw her, before he took on the impossible task of crushing those thoughts out of his awareness.

He never expected this, to have the soft of her dress slipping under his fingers, to have her stepping backwards and drawing him in her wake as she goes. He feels drugged, hazy and dizzy from the adrenaline coursing under his skin, and if he had done this more recently perhaps it would be easier to catch his breath and listen to what she says when Tsubaki pulls away to glance back over her shoulder. But he’s not listening, he’s distracted by the pull of motion along the clean line of her throat as she turns, and when she looks back with her eyes expecting an answer he doesn’t have one, can’t even feign attention.  
“What?” he has to ask, cringing against this unavoidable tell for his distraction. “Sorry, I--”

“Where’s the bedroom?” she asks without laughing, without even a flicker of mockery in her eyes or edging her voice. Her voice is lower than he’s ever heard it, purring over warmth in her throat, and it hits him like he’s been possessed, like she’s systematically unleashing all the parts of himself that he has kept under lock and key for so many years.

So “Here,” he says, stepping forward and past her as he draws her down the hall to the room in question. She follows closely enough that he doesn’t need the hold on her wrist, although he doesn’t let go either; there’s a comfort to the warmth, the bare skin flush against his fingertips, the evidence of another person’s existence as much pleasure as the anticipation of more that is winding his blood thick and hot in his veins.

The bedroom is nearly as bare as the rest of the apartment, empty of anything except for the bed against the wall and the box of clothes Mifune hasn’t yet even attempted to unpack. It doesn’t really matter; it’s the furniture that’s important for their purposes, the mattress low enough to the ground that Mifune can drop to his knees and land against the soft of the sheets. He twists, half-falling over the mattress, and Tsubaki’s on him before he can think to pull her in, a knee coming in against his hip and hands coming back into his hair. There are soft lips at his again, Tsubaki’s weight bearing him back down to the bed, and when he lands she’s pressed up against him in a way that completely distracts from any breathlessness at the impact.

“ _Ah_ ,” Mifune gasps against the warmth of her mouth, and Tsubaki hums something like the outline of a laugh; then she’s drawing back, rocking back up on her knees, her hands slipping free of Mifune’s hair as his hands fall from her waist to land against the tops of her thighs instead. There’s the heat of bare skin under his fingers, the soft of a stocking under his thumb marking a line against the top of Tsubaki’s leg, and for a moment he’s distracted by that, his eyes dropping to the span of pale skin and the dark of her stocking clean against it. It’s enough for her to reach for the side of her dress, enough for him to lose track of her hands for a moment, and by the time he looks back up her sash is falling loose and the neckline of her dress is dipping low.

“Is this okay?” she asks, but she’s not waiting for a response; she’s drawing he sash open, shrugging the fabric off one shoulder, and Mifune’s too busy shuddering in response to the slide of bared skin to form any kind of a coherent answer.

“ _God_ ,” is all he says, and then he’s sitting up, his hand coming out to catch at her arm while his lips press to her collarbone. Tsubaki trembles against his touch, arches in towards the heat of his mouth, and he wants to draw back to look at her but he can’t make himself move away just yet. Instead he lifts his hand, reaches out to fumble up under the loose fabric at her waist, and when he pushes up the smooth of her skin she’s shuddering before he realizes his fingertips are tracing the soft give of her breast half-covered under cloth.

“Ah,” she says, and “Yes, more,” and Mifune is obeying, sliding his hand up while she shifts her shoulders free of her clothing. The cloth slips free, puddles against his legs, and Tsubaki arches in closer, like she’s offering her skin to his mouth. There’s an expanse of skin for him to appreciate, pale shoulders and the heavy curve of her breasts bare for Mifune’s eyes and lips and fingers, and every movement he makes is met with a sharp inhale, a forward motion until Tsubaki is pressed flush against him, pinning the fabric of his shirt between the warmth of their bodies.

“Take this off,” she’s saying, but Mifune isn’t listening, is lost somewhere between appreciation and disbelief, certain that is this some kind of overwrought fantasy that has taken over his awareness. There are fingers against his hip, a tug at his shirt, and when he pulls back more in confusion than compliance his shirt comes up, Tsubaki dragging it up and off his head in one quick action. It catches on his hand, delays while he takes a moment to think through lifting his touch away from Tsubaki’s skin, but then it’s free, tossed aside to be entirely forgotten by them both.

Mifune can’t catch his breath. He can fight for hours without a break, hardly thinks of the exertion of combat, but this is something different, when all his adrenaline is coursing through his veins with a different purpose, when he’s pressed hard and aching against the soft of his pants and there’s nothing but a few scraps of dark fabric between him and the subject of his guilty fantasies for the last year. He might even find that guilt again, tomorrow or the day after or in a month, but right now it’s gone, burnt to ashes and dust so when he moves again it’s to press his fingertips under the line of Tsubaki’s panties arcing across the pale of her hip. She takes a sharp breath but it has the shape of a moan, anticipation catching bright on her tongue, and Mifune doesn’t stop; he drags his fingers sideways instead, skims along the line of the top of her thigh, and then his fingertips are hot and damp and he’s choking on an inhale, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to make it to getting his pants off.

“ _Oh_ ,” Tsubaki gasps, and there’s a hand at his wrist, fingers pressing in to drag him in closer rather than push him away. “ _Please_.” Her voice is purring, dropping into the shadow of the experience her calm demeanor has already suggested, and Mifune lets the sound of it melt warm under his skin as he crooks his fingers to press two up and just inside the warm give of her. His skin goes wet on contact, heat catching up under his skin like he’s being lit on fire, and Tsubaki arches, rocks up over her knees and presses herself in farther against his fingers. When Mifune looks up her head is tipped back, her throat bare for the light to glance off and her hair falling in a straight line to skim the bed between their knees.

“God,” he says, gasping the word out without thinking. “You are so beautiful,” because she is, she is cleaner and brighter and softer than his imagination ever suggested, all sweeping curves and dark hair and breathless-parted lips. He pushes his fingers up into her, feels the tremor that runs through her to press tight against him, and for a moment he thinks he would be satisfied with this, without ever even getting to the relief his body is aching for.

It’s Tsubaki that moves, while Mifune is still staring entranced at her collarbone and the deep valley between her breasts. She reaches for the edges of her panties, starts to push them down and off her legs, and when Mifune takes the hint to draw his hand free she drops sideways, pulls the fabric down over her stockings and to the tops of the boots she never paused to remove. That takes her another moment, enough time to kick her feet free and strip her panties off to join the rest of her clothes; then she’s back, not even hesitating over her stockings, pushing Mifune back to the mattress with one hand and reaching for his pants with the other.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, sounding only a little breathless around the sideways smile she’s giving him.

Mifune shakes his head. He doesn’t trust his voice to work, not when the drawstring at the front of his loose pants is falling open to Tsubaki’s touch and her fingers are skimming down his hips to curl under the fabric. Her fingers are warmth itself, they leave trails of heat in their wake as if they were catching friction as she goes, and then they’re gliding down his thighs and his pants are sliding down with them to leave him bare to the air.

He might be embarrassed, in other circumstances, at how obviously hard he is, at how slick with pre-come the head of his cock is as Tsubaki gets his clothes off. But Tsubaki sees before he has a chance to react, and the sound she makes is this low groaning wail, the tone and volume so layered over with desire that Mifune never gets a chance to go through embarrassment on his way to incoherent, trembling desire. His pants come off, Tsubaki leans back in, and Mifune is reaching for her hips at the same time she is planting a delicate hand flat in the center of his chest, holding him down and steadying her balance as she kneels over him at once. There are fingers against the base of his cock, the touch more businesslike than sensual, and he doesn’t have time to process it before Tsubaki shifts her weight back, and drops down, and slides herself down onto his cock in one blissfully fluid motion.

Mifune doesn’t know what sound he makes. He does hear Tsubaki’s, a low satisfied groan like all the tension in her is giving way at once, but he’s shivering against the sheets, his whole body quivering through a jolt of pleasure too strong to control.

“ _Ah_ ,” Tsubaki sighs, and she tips in closer, presses her head in against Mifune’s shoulder so her breasts are crushed against the scarred texture of Mifune’s skin and her hands are free to skim down against his waist. When Mifune takes a breath he can smell flowers, the scent clinging to her hair or her skin, he’s not sure which, a perfume so faint he can only pick it out borne on the warm glow of heat across her skin.

Then she starts to move, and Mifune shuts his eyes, and lets the sensation wash out over him like water. Tsubaki is warm against him, hot around his cock, and it’s been long enough,  _too_  long, every catch of friction is as overwhelming as an orgasm in itself. He doesn’t mean to be pressing as tight as he is but his fingers won’t relax, he’s gripping hard enough that his fingers must be leaving bruises against Tsubaki’s hips. But she doesn’t stop, she’s breathing in against the fall of his hair until her inhales sound louder even than his own, until he can hear the catch in her breath with every downward slide of her hips. It’s easy to lose himself in the rhythm of her breathing, to let the sound of her inhales wash over him until time blurs hazy and hot against him.

It’s not until he starts to feel the telltale tightness low in his abdomen that he comes back to himself, the panic of beating Tsubaki to the finish enough to drag him back to some semblance of coherency. She’s breathing hard, all her skin warm and slick with sweat, but Mifune’s going fast, he’s not going to last long enough to give her the satisfaction she deserves as they are. He works a hand free of her hip, persuades his fingers to loosen so he can slide his hand in between them, and Tsubaki arches her back, makes the space for his hand without slowing the pace of her motion like she knows what he wants. She probably does; at this point Mifune would be willing to assign her psychic powers as the easiest explanation for her anticipation of everything in his head, protests and desire and fantasies all together. It’s his turn to anticipate, now, to work his fingers in low between them until he can catch the slick between them and drag his fingertips up to press against Tsubaki’s clit.

He can feel the tremor that jolts through her, the way she tenses in against him as her movement stalls for a moment of reaction. It’s enough encouragement to persuade him to move, to push friction in against the sensitive skin, and she chokes off a groan against his shoulder and starts moving again, faster this time and with less of a rhythm. If it was warm before it’s blistering now, the whole room feels thick and humid with sweat and the scent of flowers, and Mifune is curling up off the bed to lean in closer and gasp for air at the warm of Tsubaki’s skin.

Tsubaki does come first, in the end. Mifune isn’t sure if it’s his distraction, that he’s focused so hard on the movement of his hand that it overrides his attention to the slick-warm friction against his length, or if it’s that the press of his hand and cock together are just enough that it’s only a few seconds for her anyway. What he is sure of is that she’s going when he hears the tattered edges of her inhale, even before her fingers scratch for a handhold against his waist, and then she shudders against him and trembles warm all along his cock, and he’s rocking up, hard and quick and desperate, and he barely hears her gasping inhale of pleasure before he’s skidding over the edge and into the headlong rush of heat in his own veins.

He’s gasping for air when his vision comes back into focus. There’s the overheated weight of Tsubaki pressed against him, his hand pinned between them with his wrist twisted back at an angle more accidental than comfortable. He slides his fingers away, gulps an inhale, and Tsubaki sigh into his shoulder, pushes herself up and slides away in one seamless motion. There’s a grace to her motions, even though Mifune suspects she’s moving slowly more from exhaustion than actual intention, the lack of speed making it look like she’s dancing as she tips her head back, runs a hand down along the line of her ponytail without any apparent concern for her continued state of undress.

Mifune had expected guilt. Even when his instinct was taking over in place of rationality, even in the midst of caving to his impulses, he had expected the guilt to catch up later, to curdle all the warmth in his veins into icy self-loathing. But it doesn’t come, and it doesn’t come, and when he opens his mouth there’s no judgment on his tongue, none of the “We shouldn’t have done this,” he expected to be saying. Instead: “You’re beautiful,” soft, a statement of truth instead of a stretch for a compliment, and Tsubaki pauses with her hand still up at her hair, blinks those wide dark eyes at him.

When she smiles, Mifune can feel the threat of regret recede farther still, evaporate over the horizon of the future, and when she tips in to press the soft of her mouth to his again, it dissolves entirely. There’s no space for guilt, or regret, or even embarrassment; there is just the warmth, the satisfaction uncoiling languid and heavy into his limbs, and the lingering perfume of flower petals in the air.


End file.
